


Practical Applications

by billtheradish, enigmaticroommate



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Future Fic, M/M, POV Sheriff Stilinski, Sheriff Stilinski Knows, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-13
Updated: 2013-02-15
Packaged: 2017-11-29 04:09:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/682611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/billtheradish/pseuds/billtheradish, https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigmaticroommate/pseuds/enigmaticroommate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone except the Sheriff has plans for Valentine's Day. Some of them are just a little less traditional than others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. February 13th

**Author's Note:**

  * For [verity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/verity/gifts).



> This story is set in an alternate future where no one in the pack (including Jackson, Lydia, and Allison) has left or died, because I like denial. Also, Stiles is 18 and the sheriff knows everything.

"Is that a chicken or a small turkey?"

Stiles smacked his head against the fridge standing up, rubbing ruefully at the back of his head as he turned around. "What?"

John nodded pointedly toward the fridge. "What's with the bird, Stiles."

"Oh. Yeah. About that." Stiles rubbed his hands against his thighs, expression twisting in a way that John was too familiar with, and hadn't missed _at all_. He sighed and crossed his arms, waiting for Stiles to finish pulling together whatever line he was going to try this time.

But Stiles met his eyes and drew himself up, pushed his chin out. "Derek's cooking tomorrow. Here. For, um, us."

"Tomorrow," John repeated, watching Stiles nod and move resolutely back to unpacking groceries. "Derek's cooking...dinner?"

Stiles gestured over his head with a bag of salad mix, turning just enough to meet John's eyes and fully convey his (poor) opinion of that question. "I didn't exactly invite him to breakfast, Dad. Yes, dinner. Derek's cooking dinner. Here. Tomorrow. And, incidentally, showing me how to roast a chicken, since that's a life skill I apparently need to know."

"You realize I'll be home tomorrow night."

"Yeah. Hence the cooking for _us_. All three of us." Stiles neck flushed, painfully obvious against his navy t-shirt. "Having dinner."

John ran a hand down his face and stepped away to lean against the counter. "So just to clarify. Your older, werewolf boyfriend is coming over and cooking dinner. For the three of us. On Valentine's Day."

"Exactly!" Stiles straightened up, smiling for the first time since John had come home, and pointed triumphantly at him with a carrot.

They stood like that for a moment, John baffled and Stiles apparently victorious, before Stiles tucked what looked like (but probably wasn't) a tub of sour cream into the fridge and closed the door. John sighed, "Will this make more sense tomorrow?"

"Uh. Maybe?" Stiles grimaced and shoved his hands in his pockets, letting his shoulders curl up toward his ears. "I don't get what's confusing."

John gave up.


	2. February 14th

When he came home, Stiles was stretched out on the couch with a Red Vine in his mouth and a game controller resting on his chest. It looked like-- It was a window onto the past, honestly. Stiles had even swapped his jeans for a pair of flannel pants and there were a couple of pizza boxes piled haphazardly on one end of the coffee table. 

The game was paused and Stiles lifted a hand in greeting, and if John didn't know better, he'd swear that Scott was in the kitchen making popcorn.

Then he actually heard the popping start.

John sighed and hung up his coat, moving over to peer into the kitchen before going upstairs to put his gun away.

It wasn't actually surprising to see Derek Hale instead of Scott, despite the blast-from-the-past set up. No, what was surprising was seeing him barefoot, in sweats and a wife-beater, glaring fixedly at the microwave while he talked on the phone. He still heard John coming, though, turned to give him a nervous nod as soon as John stepped into sight. 

Then he rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, mouth quirking to one side like he did it a lot. "Yeah. I get it. You made a decision and now you regret it. But what's actually going to _fix_ it? Do you really think standing this guy up will help?"

John blinked and quickly backed out of the room. There was another ring as he made his way toward the stairs, and he heard Stiles pick up with a bland "So what's the problem?" 

John couldn't help glancing over, so he saw the nod that went with the hum before Stiles said "Yeah, he's dealing with Eri- _Jesus Christ_ , stop that. She can't hear you, I promise. Just. Tell me what _your_ problem is, not your problem _with her_ , okay Boyd?"

He _really_ didn't want to know, John decided, and hurried out of hearing range.

\-----

Stiles was still on the phone when John got back downstairs, despite the way he'd lingered to check over his gun before he locked it up for the night. 

Derek was on the couch, with Stiles' feet in his lap and a handful of popcorn on its way to his mouth. He gave John another, less nervous nod before turning his attention back to the destruction of all things corn.

"Okay, seriously, if you don't get your head on straight soon I'm going to make you deal with Derek." Stiles sighed and ran a hand down over his face. "Yes, Scott, I _know_ he's not your alpha. We all know. But I'm getting kind of sick of this, okay? Now look, the last _three times_ you've freaked out about this--"

Something chirped, and John craned his head just enough to spot the other phone before Derek scooped it off the arm of the couch, frowning, and thumbed it on. "Lydia? What--" Derek blinked a few times, then sighed. "Yes, peach. Absolutely not plum, or anything darker. Yes. You're welcome." The phone didn't even make it all the way down before it chirped again. "--Yeah?"

John had assumed that particular tone of resignation was reserved for law enforcement and medical professionals. Apparently not. (Firemen, in John's experience, were mostly inclined to 'what, _again_?' exasperation.)

"--seriously, she's _not going to care_ , Scott. She just wants to spend the day _with you_. She even said so. To both of us. A big fancy dinner is not necessary!" Stiles flailed his free hand like it could make up for the fact that he was holding a phone to one ear. "Besides, she _likes_ bowling! Especially when she gets to kick your ass at it."

"...what do you mean you overheard her--" Derek sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Jackson, if you're stalking your girlfriend on-- Right. Ahuh. Look. If it's a problem, then _go somewhere else_. Yes, I know you have reservations. But if Lydia doesn't want to eat there-- Just call Isaac. Yes. No, I'm serious. He's taking his date to that Italian place Lydia likes. Ask him to swap, offer to pay him back for their meal. Because you can afford it and he's doing you a favor, now stop being an ass."

Both phone calls ended with nearly violent button stabs and tired sighs.

"So," John drawled, because he knew _that_ tone, too. "You're the crisis line tonight?"

"They are buying us _so much_ sale chocolate tomorrow, I swear to god," Stiles muttered, viciously un-pausing their game.

Derek's phone chirped. 

The game went back on pause.

"I need a beer," John sighed, and headed for the kitchen.

Stiles crammed half of another Red Vine in his mouth, twisting around to shout "Make more popcorn!" after him.

\-----

The chicken was good, at least. And the boys managed to get more than half an hour into their game once their friends' dates started.


	3. February 15th

John got home at 5:45pm February 15th to discover a _mountain range_ of candy on his coffee table. Someone had bought handfuls on handfuls on _handfuls_ of foil-wrapped Hersheys Kisses and apparently hadn't bothered to remember to buy a _bag_ , too, because they were scattered _everywhere_. He'd probably be finding bits of pink and red foil under the couch for months, and that was assuming he'd be able to find them between the discarded tissue-wrappings from the _stacks_ of higher-end boxed chocolates. At least one of those boxes wasn't labeled in English.

Wait, no, that wasn't all higher-end stuff, he'd seen at least a few of those boxes in the grocery store last week.

Come to think of it he'd seen those grocery bags, too. Good god. Did that jar of Red Vines honestly say _four pounds_?

There was a golden apple separated from the range by eight pristine inches of clear space. Neatly boxed, blazoned with Hersheys' logo.

When he took another step into the living room he discovered there was a second apple on the floor, also boxed, but lying on its side instead of sitting upright.

"I know, right?" Stiles said from the stairs, and John held out his hands at the coffee table. 

"You'd think Jackson could at least have grabbed something halfway decent but no," his son remarked, thumping the rest of the way down the stairs. He had a duffle bag in one hand, John noticed in passing, and was waving his free hand in to-be-fair-counterpoint "although he did get us some pretty awesome jelly things, so--"

"What _is_ all this?" John asked. He shouldn't have had to ask why there was a _mountain_ of chocolate in his living room, but he did. Life in Casa Stilinski. Never boring.

Stiles grinned, all white teeth and glee. "Tribute."

John blinked.

Stiles dropped his duffle bag on the couch. Unzipped the main compartment as he said "Derek gave most of the pack some spending money last week, with orders to bring me whatever they didn't spend on the public performance of a healthy, stable relationship--" he waggled his hands to emphasize his point, and this, this was the kid who _agonized_ over what cards to buy for his second grade Valentine's Day party and spent about forty dollars one year buying five chocolates for Lydia Martin. When had his kid grown _up_?-- "on day-after sale chocolate for me." Stiles eyed the table. "I'm pretty sure this is more than that, but--oh, hey! Wine jellies!" 

Well, at least some things didn't change. John watched as Stiles ripped the top off a cellophane-and-cardboard-sealed box and stuffed about four purple-ish rectangles into one cheek.

Then he scooped up a double-handful of the foiled foothills and dumped it into his duffle. Followed by the hoard of Red Vines, another packet of jellies, a couple of garishly-printed grocery store boxes, and then Stiles started cherry-picking out all of the non-chocolate.

As the mountain got smaller, John sighed and finally climbed out of his coat, tossing it onto the nearest chair. "Okay. So what's with the bag?"

"What bag?" Stiles gave him the big guileless eyes.

It would have been more effective if he hadn't just given the apple on the table a judging look and then underhanded it into the duffle. (Now if only he could do that on the field.) 

John waited, deliberately not crossing his arms, until his son heaved a gusty sigh and sat back on his heels, hands propped on his thighs. Without looking over, he said "We're taking a break. We're leaving our phones here, Lydia's got the number for the only phone we _are_ taking and has promised to only use it if it's really important. But right now, we've been dealing with everybody else's crap for the last _month_ so we're taking a couple of nights to ourselves. Alright?"

"Is there some reason it shouldn't be?" It shouldn't have been, but it was still one of the weirder parts of life post-confession that Stiles could say the name Lydia without going into a rhapsody about the way her hair smelled or how she'd eviscerated some school assignment as part of her bid for eventual world domination. Instead Lydia was somehow a friend. And possibly a stalking victim. He should keep an eye on that.

Then again. Werewolves.

"No! I don't know! Maybe? I wasn't entirely sure you wouldn't object!" Well, Stiles was looking at him now. And flailing.

There went the top layer of the boxed chocolates.

And there went the next four.

As the avalanche drifted to a halt--not helped by Stiles trying to herd things back onto the table, and yeah, they'd be finding chocolate under the couch for the rest of _time_ \--John said "Kid, you're eighteen. Even if I wanted to, and I don't, there's not a lot of objecting I can do. You going to leave me that number, too?"

Stiles blinked.

"I suppose I could look up the Martins' number," John started, and tried not to snicker as his son went scrabbling for something and more candy went flying.

The something turned out to be a cell phone, and John's pocket chirped helpfully two seconds after Stiles finally got his hands on it. "When are you back?"

"Sunday," Derek said from the stairs, and it was dignity saving that Stiles jumped, too.

"You know, I was just _in_ my room and I could swear..."

Derek rolled his eyes, held up the leather jacket in his left hand. "I left my jacket yesterday. It didn't make sense to come in and go upstairs when I'd just need to come downstairs again."

"So what, breaking in through my window is easier?"

The only response he got to that was a blank look from Derek that implied Stiles was an idiot for thinking otherwise. Stiles started miming.

Werewolves. Seriously. Good god, what was his life.

"Boys, _go_ ," he interrupted the silent skirmish, and god, he missed Anna sometimes, "Have fun. _Don't_ give me details."

Stiles snorted, reaching over to zip the duffle closed and heft the strap over one of his shoulders. "Please. Like we won't spend half the time watching old horror movies."

Derek stole the bag as Stiles passed him, slung it across his chest, and slid out of the way of Stiles' attempted return grab, even as he dipped his head politely towards John. "Sir."

"Derek," John acknowledged, and did his best to ignore Stiles' parting shot of "I expect most of that chocolate to still be here when we get back! It is _so_ not on your diet."

Most of it would still be there for Stiles.

Probably.

He'd cope.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is already _fully written_. A chapter will be posted tomorrow and the day after, corresponding with when the events of each chapter take place. This is not a work-in-progress, it's a work-in-posting.
> 
> Thanks to the enigmatic roommate for her beta reading and to verity, without whom this story wouldn't have existed. Because we have some fantastic conversations.


End file.
